


Fasten Me to Your Side

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Baby!Tauriel, But mostly only offscreen, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel is finally sleeping through the night. Her guardians find a little time to speak of how they feel, and make plans for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fasten Me to Your Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> This is really an excerpt from a longer work, but--both to help myself get past a writing block, and to have it done in time to include in my Podfic Advent Calendar--I decided to finish and post this piece as its own work.
> 
> According to interviews with Evangeline Lilly, Tauriel was orphaned when her parents were killed in an orc raid. I wanted to write about her childhood, and up popped these two OCs, telling me their own stories and how their lives were entwined with hers.
> 
> For background: Dunna is one of the Silvan elves who were in the Greenwood prior to Oropher's arrival. She was previously a soldier, but gave it up in favor of healing after the Last Alliance.  
> Nídhil is Sindar, a Mirkwood guard, and was born sometime after the death of Oropher. As the oldest of an almost Feanorian number of children, she knows a bit about babies.

Tauriel was finally, finally sleeping through the night. The first few times it happened, Dunna had woken fitfully every few hours, and Nídhil had had to gently, sleepily dissuade her from waking the babe just to make sure she was still breathing. Now it was going on a week, and while it was hard to say whether it would last, they had both enjoyed the extra rest.

Dunna had just eased the sleeping Tauriel into her bassinet. Nídhil came up behind her, bending down to rest her chin on Dunna’s shoulder. “It seems terribly unfair,” she murmured, “that we were saddled with all the responsibility of a child, without any of the joy people usually have in the getting of one.”

Dunna, literal as ever, missed her meaning, her small form tensing. “I'll not give her back. Not now. I know my duty.” She spoke of duty, but she feared Nídhil could see right through her. After their months together, she was beginning to recognize the signs of weak softness behind Dunna’s fierce facade. Perversely, it made Dunna want to push Nídhil away, but they both knew she had not the skill to parent the babe alone.

Nídhil curled an arm around her, one hand coming up to stroke featherlight fingertips along the jut of her collarbone, her voice playful. “I wouldn't let you. I meant that we should balance the scales in the other direction.”

Dunna swallowed hard as she realized what Nídhil was implying, her pulse leaping where Nídhil’s thumb rested gently against her throat. She turned in Nídhil’s grasp, lifting her hands as if to touch, but hovered just shy of actually doing so. Nídhil had such a merry, teasing temperament that Dunna found it impossible to tell if she was serious, and she could not bear to humiliate herself if it were only a jest.

They _had_ been close these last few months, Nídhil more often sleeping beside her than in the barracks; but then, it was easier that way, with Tauriel up at all hours. She could chalk up the many small intimacies—even the times that would have otherwise seemed like preludes to romance—as bonding over the shared endurance trial that was keeping an infant happy and hale. She couldn’t explain why Nídhil had chosen to share the burden in the first place, of course, but it probably had to do with being a much kinder and better person than Dunna was.

Instead of touching, Dunna folded her arms, letting Nídhil catch a glimpse of her slight smile before she suppressed it. “I suppose you think you're very witty,” she said, in a tone that did not quite disagree.

“I do, in fact!” Nídhil laughed and let her go. She had judged right, then—only a jest. Dunna shushed her laughter, muttering about waking the baby, and Nídhil laughed again and pulled them both out into the sitting room, closing the door behind her.

It was a production, the way she folded her tall frame into a chair or settled—as now—onto a sofa. However, she had a queer rawboned grace to her, so it was the sort of production Dunna would have happily purchased tickets for. They had sat here together often enough, slumped against one another in exhausted quiet, that she was not too shy to take the seat beside Nídhil.

“Well?” Nídhil murmured, her long fingers alighting on Dunna’s shoulder, her warm expression like the rising sun. “What do you think? Shall we not earn our little bundle of joy?”

Dunna’s mouth went dry. Was it a serious invitation after all? She did not freeze, exactly—Nídhil was so kind that she likely would have withdrawn immediately at such a reaction—but she could not find her tongue to return some sarcastic banter as she normally would have. She hurriedly put a hand over Nídhil’s, warm on her shoulder, lest Nídhil think the touch was unwanted.

“It’s not as if we’re in danger of making another one.” Nídhil was still teasing, but there was no mistaking it now—she _did_ mean it. She was completely in earnest, Dunna realized, and felt a fool. Perhaps she always had been, and that teasing manner was her way of—oh, Dunna should have seen it before!

She took a steadying breath and leaned forward, her shoulder pressing against the palm of Nídhil’s hand. “What would an unwed marchwarden know about the getting of children, anyway?” she scoffed, but she met Nídhil’s eyes with an expression of playful challenge.

“You’ve been too long out of the company of soldiers, if you have to ask me that.” Nídhil leaned in too, so that they spoke close together, in confrontation or in collusion. “Besides,” she said, her voice going warm and winsome, “given how much bread I have baked you, how many teas I have brewed and floors I have swept—not to mention the never-ending washing-up—I am a wife in all but name. What remains but the…” she raised her eyebrows suggestively, “formalities?”

Dunna quirked a single eyebrow back. “You mean all the bread you’ve burned and the teacups you’ve chipped? I think you’d better leave the wifing to me, what with all the tonics I’ve mixed you and cuts I’ve bound when you return from patrols.” Her voice was dry, but her mind was full of images what _the formalities_ might encompass.

Nídhil’s laugh was warm and throaty, stirring Dunna's desire even as her heart somersaulted at the sound. “You have the bedside manner of a badger roused from its burrow! I am certain a wife is meant to be more tender.” The hand on Dunna's shoulder pulled her closer, until Nídhil’s lips were at the corner of her jaw, just shy of her earlobe. “I think between the both of us, we might amount to _one_ barely-decent wife. Shall we combine forces?”

Dunna shivered. The answer, of course, was _yes!_ Instead, her stupid mouth said: “That’s the least romantic proposal I have ever heard of.”

Nídhil rocked back, her eyes bright with amusement. “Further proof that I’m only halfway wife-worthy.”

“A third, at _best._ ” Still Dunna found herself hesitating, like a captain wary of ambush. She was not often conscious of how much younger than her Nídhil was, but here it mattered. Dunna was an old maid, more or less, and content with it; but Nídhil was at an age where many marriages were made, especially among the guard. Dunna put a little more space between them, and said, lowly, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You aren’t beholden to me, or...or to her.”

“ _Dunna._ ” Nídhil sounded fondly exasperated, but she pressed on.

“No, I don’t mean—that is, I would have been lost without your help, don’t think I don’t realize that. But you might still want a real marriage, with children of your own, and I wouldn’t have you give that away just for practicality’s sake.”

Nídhil reached for her again, sliding arms around her and pulling her into an embrace she could not escape. “I do want a real marriage. _With you,_ you stubborn thing.” She seized one of Dunna’s hands and brought it up to her mouth, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “Do you honestly not understand why I’m here? I’ve come to love her, that’s true enough, but I’m here for _you._ If you are trying to gently put me off, be more direct and I will retreat. But if you aren’t—”

“I never meant to marry,” Dunna said, though she was thinking aloud rather than answering.

“Is it too sudden?” Nídhil eased back a little, not quite releasing her. “I can be slower. I _am_ hot-blooded, I know it.”

“Hush,” said Dunna, falling back on her normal gruff demeanor. Nídhil closed her mouth, but the way she laid a teasing finger over her own lips said that she knew she wasn’t truly being scolded. “I never expected to find anyone I could tolerate sharing a house with, for one. And the notion of being with child gives me the crawling horrors. Besides which, I have never met a man I wanted to exchange friendly banter with, much less—” and here she smiled wryly, falling back on a soldier’s crudeness, for Nídhil’s benefit— “exchange bodily fluids with.”

Nídhil, all sweetness, said, “I can counter two of those objections, anyway.”

Dunna, bolder than she had ever been, drew a breath and said, “Had I not specified a man, you would neatly remove all three. But you’ve caught me in a forgiving mood.”

Nídhil was alight with excitement. She started to say something, then thought better of it, instead leaning in carefully, seeking permission. Dunna tipped her face up just slightly, meeting her halfway.

The kiss was soft, but it was not chaste.

Nídhil caught Dunna’s lower lip gently between her own, with barely any pressure; still, the light touch burned against her mouth the way spices did on the tongue. Dunna was unsure what to do with her hands, whether she should lift them to cup Nídhil’s face or rest them on her shoulders, or—but then Nídhil pressed into her space, body soft and warm against her, and it seemed natural to lay them in the low curve of her back and hold her there.

Dunna had never understood how to be as Nídhil was. She had only ever seen two paths—she could either be sharp and demanding, or be gentle and be crushed underfoot. A few too many crushings had ensured she would choose sharpness; or, more likely, it had always been in her nature and she’d only managed to restrain it for a brief experiment. Nídhil was different. Everything about her was sweet, eager, patient; she was never forceful, but still, somehow, she was a force to be reckoned with. Those that tried her boundaries found her calmly, kindly immobile—and when she wanted something, she would have it, though she never left the same trail of stepped-upon toes in her wake as Dunna seemed to.

She was the same in love: nothing she did was forceful or fierce, and yet _hot-blooded_ was no exaggeration. The barest of kisses was the most passionate; she did not push, but subtly shifted position until Dunna found herself laid out beneath her, as breathless and desperate as if she had been thrown down. Nídhil kept her weight off Dunna, being by far the larger, but pressed close enough that Dunna could feel every inch of her burning where they brushed.

Well, Nídhil wasn’t the only one who wanted. Her gentle demeanor might soften Dunna’s sharpness, but _demanding_ was still on the table.

She pushed the loose gown off of Nídhil’s shoulders, fitting her mouth to the skin that was bared thereby. Nídhil tipped her head back, inviting; the long line of her throat was irresistible, and Dunna followed her collarbones inward to it. She had none of Nídhil’s gentle skill, and did not bother trying to imitate it. Her passion would leave bruises, but that was all right—Nídhil gasped and said, “ _Harder,_ ” and the sound she made when Dunna’s kisses changed to bites was nothing short of obscene.

The gown slipped lower, and Nídhil shifted back to shake her arms free of the pinioning sleeves, leaving her bare to the waist. Dunna caught her breath in wonder, leaving off for a long moment to stare; Nídhil, unselfconscious, sat back on her heels and let her look, a smile curling just at the corners of her mouth. She was muscled, of course, like the warrior she was; but soft here as in all other ways, her strength hidden. Her belly creased a little where she bent, and her breasts hung low and shallow, crowned with rose-pink.

Dunna had to taste her.

If her mouth was less sharp now, it was only because she used tongue in place of teeth, and not because her desperation had lessened. Nídhil, meanwhile, at last wavered in her gentleness; she began unbinding Dunna’s braids with both hands, as fast as her fingers could comb through them, heedless of whether they pulled. Dunna moaned, surprising herself, and might have drawn back in embarrassment save for Nídhil’s fists tight in her newly-loosed hair.

Nídhil’s gown would not slide off her hips without being unbuttoned. It was a risk—particularly considering Dunna could sew a wound better than a shirt—but so far Nídhil seemed enflamed by her sharpness rather than dismayed, so she dared. She watched her own hands seize the gown’s collar and _pull_ , and though it was more difficult to tear buttons loose than she had imagined, enough came free to serve her purpose. Nídhil looked down in surprise, then laughed huskily, crawling out of the remains of the garment to kneel over Dunna, naked and glorious.

“Where are your _smallclothes_?” Dunna said, only just realizing they were missing, perhaps because she could not quite process the sight before her.

Nídhil laughed again. “You’re such an old auntie.” Somehow, though Dunna was still fully clothed, she felt the more exposed of the two as Nídhil bent to kiss her. “I hate to ruin your image of me as a spontaneous creature, but this was not precisely _unplanned_.”

Dunna’s sarcasm was automatic. “You mean you don’t go about like that all the time? Thank goodness, I’d think the armor would chafe.” She brushed Nídhil’s coppery hair down from her shoulders so that it fell about them like a curtain. “I suppose next you will tell me you’ve been rehearsing that line about the begetting of children for weeks.”

“No,” Nídhil said, grinning down at her. “That was purely an inspiration of the moment. I had been considering how to—”

Dunna had heard of mothers being attuned to their babies’ cries from birth. Neither she nor Nídhil had borne Tauriel, of course, but they both went silent at the same moment, listening hard. In the bedroom, she had begun to fret; the sound tugged on them both like pulling at a marionette’s strings. Dunna made to rise, but Nídhil settled bodily against her, staying her.

“Shh,” she murmured, “give it a moment. Sometimes they put themselves back to sleep.”

It went against everything in Dunna to let Tauriel cry, but she had to admit that for now it was only fussing, and Nídhil knew more about babies than she probably ever would. Sure enough, after a short interlude the sounds subsided without ever really turning to a wail. Dunna relaxed, only just realizing she had been tense.

The interruption had cleared her thoughts a little. She tipped her head back against the arm of the sofa, gazing up at Nídhil, and while she still _wanted_ fiercely, the fire was banked just now. “This might bear a little more talking about.”

Nídhil leaned back, incredulous but amused. “Ah, there it is. I almost thought for a moment you _weren’t_ made of stone.”

Dunna let her glance rake downwards. “Stone would not appreciate the view so well. Petrified wood, perhaps.” Nídhil laughed. “This may surprise you, especially given that until recently I had no aspirations to marriage, but I am a traditionalist when it comes to certain things.”

“You? Never,” Nídhil teased automatically, though she sobered when the words filtered through. “Do you mean the engagement year? I won't pretend it will be easy, but if it’s what you want…”

“I mean,” said Dunna, “the proper pomp and ceremony. Family and friends and traditional words spoken, that sort of thing. A... _party_.”

Nídhil’s eyebrows jumped. “You loathe parties. And crowds, for that matter. And pomp, _and_ ceremony.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” Dunna, on an impulse, seized Nídhil’s hand and kissed her ring finger. “I don’t want to turn up out of the blue with a ring on and have the gossips hounding us both until someone else does something worth talking about. I want it to be _real_ , and formal, and proper. A party to satisfy everyone, so the rest of what we have can be...ours. Between you and me, and no one else.”

Nídhil’s smile went soft and warm, and the heat rose in Dunna again. “You ascetic. You could have the finest jewels and you would never wear them, only peek inside the case and smile at them once a century. Why do you so dislike people seeing your happiness?”

“That I am happy, anyone may know.” Dunna stroked light fingertips down Nídhil’s bare back, reveling in the feel of her skin. “The details, however, are none of their business.”

Nídhil rolled her eyes, but leaned down, her lips brushing over Dunna’s. “If you want a party, then a party we shall have. Where did we land on the engagement year, my traditionalist bride?”

“Well. We should do it sooner, I think, for Tauriel’s sake. They do say children need consistency in their lives—best to do it before she remembers one way or the other. Can we make arrangements in time for the solstice?” That was a little over a month away, so it would be a stretch, though not impossible. Nídhil made a noise of agreement.

Now Dunna’s expression grew wicked. “As for the ceremony itself—there will be so much to do, it only seems practical that we begin some of the preparations now. We can wait and speak our pledge before the One in the traditional manner, of course, but...” Her hands came to settle, just at that moment, over the quite appealing curves of Nídhil’s ass, her mouth quirking with mischief. “Perhaps we should rehearse the bodily union part ahead of time.”

Nídhil slumped against her, snorting with sudden laughter; it was not an attractive sound, but it was, somehow, deeply endearing. “Oh, thank the _Valar_. I thought you would make me wait—”

“ _Not_ made of stone,” Dunna murmured against her neck, and squeezed gently. Nídhil giggled, a far prettier noise, and squirmed against her. “Though even stone would be hard-pressed to—”

“No. Absolutely no puns.” Nídhil cut her off with a kiss, and Dunna didn't mind one bit. They had done quite enough talking, anyway. She pushed Nídhil back a little, settling her so that she straddled one of Dunna’s still-clothed thighs, and sat up to apply lips and tongue to one perfect nipple as Nídhil began to rock against her.

“I'm given to understand,” Nídhil said breathlessly, after a moment, “that usually this is done with _both_ parties unclothed.”

Dunna pretended to consider this very seriously. “Well,” she said slowly, fingers stroking over the soft curve of Nídhil’s belly and downwards, “it is only rehearsal, after all.”

“Dunna _,_ ” Nídhil said with exasperation, and then with more urgency as Dunna’s hand slipped between her legs— “ _Dunna_. Surely you don’t mean to—”

All in a rush, Dunna realized she _did_ mean to, and was not entirely surprised at herself. After all, what did she value more highly than patience, delayed gratification, the simple satisfaction of work well done? She had never before considered the potential applications when it came to love, but the thought of holding herself back, clothed and yearning, as she pleasured a happily (and unrestrainedly) wanton Nídhil—it was the sort of image her most fevered dreams were made of.

“Will you let me?” she breathed, and something in her tone made Nídhil shiver.

She laughed her warm, infectious laugh, and panted back— “Prudish restraint should not be this alluring. Have me then, my half-wife, in whatever strange way you see fit. Only _please_ , do it soon, and less gently.”

Dunna had only been teasing until now, stroking an idle fingertip through her wetness and tracing the sensitive lines of her labia with the barest pressure; at Nídhil’s demand, she slipped a finger inside her, nipping at her chin. It took some trial and error to find an angle—and a motion—that suited; touching Nídhil this way was not quite the same as touching herself. Nídhil seemed to enjoy the exploration, at any rate, and the way her laughter twisted into a choked sound of need when Dunna got it right was worth any amount of fumbling.

Nídhil, of course, could not be passive or still if her life depended on it. At first it was only restless, eager shifting, tossing her head and tugging at Dunna’s hair; but soon she moved into it with her entire body, braced over Dunna on her knees and riding her hand with elated abandon. Dunna thought she might die of desire, and could not remember ever being happier.

Nídhil was demanding in more ways than one. The harsher Dunna’s mouth was, the more Nídhil gasped and keened and hissed encouragement. She would bear the marks of it tomorrow, and Dunna would be mortified, but that thought was an eternity away at the moment. At last she closed her teeth gently but firmly around a nipple, and Nídhil came on a sob, clenching tight around Dunna’s clever fingers.

Dunna had heard the tale once of a _Goldai_ who, dying, had gone up in flame and left nothing but ash behind; she didn’t remember the details, but just at the moment she was certain she knew how he felt. Dunna tended to feel languid and lazy after bringing herself off, but Nídhil seemed to blaze hotter for it, eyeing her with hunger as she shifted her stance and went for Dunna’s trouser lacings.

“Don’t stop me,” she warned, before Dunna could say anything, “unless you really mean it.”

Dunna didn’t say anything. Instead she watched, breathless, lips parted, as Nídhil undid the laces entirely in less time than it would have taken Dunna just to work the knot free. She did not bother trying to get the trousers off, only slid a hand inside them, her eyes sparkling as Dunna arched against her.

She did not tease, for which Dunna was grateful. Here, too, she was sweet but commanding, gentle but insistent. Dunna could do nothing but lie back, gasping, shuddering silently underneath her ministrations. It was Dunna’s nature to be quiet in love; but at the last, Nídhil captured her mouth in a heated kiss, and she was surprised to hear herself whimper into it as climax shook her.

Nídhil stretched out against her as she came down, tucking her bright head into the curve of Dunna’s neck, either sensing Dunna’s need to be held or simply wanting the same. Dunna was too hot now in her clothing, and Nídhil could not have been comfortable—the sofa was too short for her to lay out completely, and so she was bunched up and folded somewhat awkwardly around Dunna—but still they held tight to one another. Dunna felt as if she were full of light, and nothing else mattered as long as they stayed like this.

At last, Nídhil made the mistake of stretching, and nearly pitched herself right onto the floor. Dunna, despite the warm worshipful admiration filling her belly, had to snort with laughter, and the spell was broken. But—even as Nídhil smiled ruefully at her and sat up—she knew that it was all right, that this door that had opened would not be closed again.

Nídhil confirmed it, rising without bothering to collect her ruined gown, offering Dunna a hand up. “Well, my blushing bride, I suppose it is my turn to be the killjoy half, and recall to mind that our daughter will be awake and hungry again in approximately—” she glanced briefly upwards, calculating— “five hours. Perhaps we could retire? I would not mind if you were more...appropriately dressed, though.”

 _Our_ daughter. The light filled Dunna up again, and she wondered dizzily whether it would be as bright as day once they blew out the lamps, the glow of her joy spilling out where everyone else could see it.

She hoped not; this happiness was hers, and she did not want to share, not with anyone beyond the confines of this bright, warm, joyful house.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Jupiter" by Jewel, which I listened to on loop while writing this. (The version from Spirit, because there is another one which is—IMO—not nearly as sexy.)
> 
> A zillion thanks to Elleth, without whom I would still be afraid to write femslash.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Fasten Me to Your Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479157) by [pumpkinpodfic (thegreatpumpkin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/pumpkinpodfic)




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